


Enter Me

by gonfalonier



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Infidelity, Jefferson is a creep, Manipulation, Multi, Slow To Update, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton will eventually destroy himself.  Thomas, after some independent investigation, is happy to speed along the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _To some biographers, the Reynolds affair was a kind of return of the repressed, with Hamilton reenacting the role of his father. A massive 1976 biography by Robert Hendrickson propounds a more compelling theory – that the Reynolds affair was the result of a collusion among Jefferson, Madison, and Aaron Burr to entrap Hamilton and ruin his political career._ \- [The Erotic Charisma of Alexander Hamilton](http://d-scholarship.pitt.edu/5848/1/-AMS-AMS45_01-S0021875810000629a.pdf)

In Paris, they don’t have scandals. The sexual mores are as relaxed as they can be under any government that grows fat on tithes. It’s not that they all fuck in the streets, but there is fucking in the streets to be done if one knows where to look. Thomas Jefferson is a man of many appetites, and among the boys and women of Paris he never went hungry. There were certain amenities from home he missed -- he had to pour his own wine after retiring to his quarters -- but he hardly yearned for the daughters of his countrymen. Paris loved him, kissed him on both cheeks, brought him whores to flounce into his lap. If he’d wanted to he could have sat for a portrait playing cards on a Sunday with his cock in a pretty girl’s mouth.

Now, he’s home. The fun is over. He’s a statesman again and there are expectations. Now that the Revolution has ended, the celebrations have faded into a quotidian bustle, so no more bashes with dozens of casks of whatever. No one will have the time; too focused on policy, a saltpeter for the convivial spirit. He’ll welcome himself back privately, he supposes, in ways his fellow citizens would deem a scandal if they knew. If affairs of state must keep him away from Paris, then he will simply make a Paris of Monticello.

But first, New York. Have mercy. The president wants him. Thomas is happy to find he could take or leave George Washington as a man, same as ever. Washington is an icon, and, Thomas finds, an empty one. A Virginian by birth who has no loyalty to its people; a president in name but a monarch in practice. An ineffectual old marionette, married to a charmless woman, cobbled along by Alexander Hamilton.

In every sense of the word as Jefferson uses it, Hamilton is a boy. He’s a young fool with no regard, no breeding -- god almighty, no parents, even -- and more money than he deserves. No one of import has informed his opinions, they are as organic and profuse as nettles. What he did to earn the favor of the general, Thomas is loath to consider. But oh, if he had to venture a guess he could come up with something impressive. It takes no effort at all to imagine Hamilton stumbling from the president’s office with hair askew and lips still shining. Thomas can’t imagine any other way Washington could consider the child’s treasonous ideas. As ardent as they might be, there is almost certainly nothing sincere in Hamilton’s affection. Thomas has no doubt the lad plans to fuck, cheat, and fight his way to the presidency himself, even if he has to grind Washington’s arthritic bones between his palms and strew them along the path.

The more Thomas learns about Hamilton the darker his opinion grows. Gilbert had come home to France with loud praises for the boy as a soldier and a survivor. To hear the man speak, one would think that the war was won the moment Washington issued Hamilton a command position, as if Hamilton’s bayonet ran straight through the heart of the King himself. Thomas never did have the stomach for blood and dirt, even in service of the cause of sweet freedom. And now the smoke has cleared and life has changed for everyone, yet Hamilton continues to be a scrappy stray, nipping at the bootheels of men who are trying to make true progress. Now that the soldier’s drab coat has been shed he’s revealed his true self: a city-grown fop, flashy as a pistol. He has no idea what to do with his own money, much less the funds of the states.

He has no salient views on agriculture (possibly because he never eats), nor on any other part of their budding nation outside New York -- nor, even, on the affairs of the world. If only Lafayette could hear what Hamilton thinks of France and its passionate radicals. Perhaps Thomas can goad the young man into writing an inflammatory pamphlet, some scrap of horse shit guaranteed to lose Hamilton friends. If he’s endured as many hard times as they say, he could survive some more. In private audience with Washington Thomas has suggested, with a laugh of course, that they send Hamilton out west to talk at the natives until they cede their lands to get him to shut up. It was not taken well. Washington has always been a humorless old ass.

Simply getting Hamilton out of his sight would be enough. New York is enough of an eyesore as it is, with Alexander Hamilton the carbuncle on the tip of its nose. Washington doesn’t respond to ultimatums, so there’s nothing to be gained in “he goes or I go”, and anyway Thomas prefers a little more finesse: a game so fine that his opponent runs himself off. And Hamilton seems accustomed to running. His waistcoats may fit him at the belly now but Thomas knows the boy’s still haunted by his past: rattling thin, scurrying along the streets of the city in search of some safe place to hoard his stolen crusts. It wouldn’t take much to send him back to that place. Hamilton has built his career around convincing everyone he should be taken seriously, a wafer-thin veneer fitted precariously over his insecurities. Thomas is persuasive: _You can’t provide for your family, Alexander. As hard as you work, your children are as fatherless as you were. With the scraps you’re being paid, they’re just as hungry._ Maybe if Thomas is lucky Hamilton will simply hang himself and bring peace to the nation at last.


	2. Chapter 2

There are many ways men choose to hang themselves. Thomas, he’s never tried any of them, always leaning safely at the edge of the crowd around the gallows, and he’s seen that in the end most people are victims of their own unexamined faults. Some men dangle at the end of their vices and suffocate slowly while those who love them turn away one by one. Others let their petty angers build like poison, no balance and no outlet, until the blood foams up in their mouth and they collapse.

Alexander Hamilton seems to be braiding his own noose with several gaudy threads. There is nothing in New York that Thomas particularly likes to do -- lunch with James, a brief walk through one of its squalid little parks -- and so he’ll make amusement for himself. He has turned Hamilton into a sport, a game animal. He follows his scent through the city. Sometimes he follows him to where he lives, to where the scent is the strongest. Hamilton’s living arrangement is foul. Eliza doesn’t bake her own bread; they have no servants. (Dear god, where would they even find the space? They’d have to keep the maid in the empty pantry.) Where they live could not be considered a home, and between the two of them they have no idea how to keep it. Charmingly, the curtains are nearly always open. Thomas, from his vantage points, passing slowly on the street in front of their building, has in turn seen the two of them arguing and embracing; he’s seen Hamilton scribbling furiously at the desk in the bedroom. He once watched Eliza nurse one of their brood right at the window. He thought he understood her to be clever. Maybe she is.

Hamilton spends money that isn’t his. He spends Schuyler money and Washington money and Virginia money, and what little money he’s scraped together doing whatever it is he does. Hopefully the President pays him something extra for the time they spend together privately. Classically, however, catamites provided their services free of charge. (While Eliza, patient as Griselda, sits by the window and darns expensive stockings, alone, looking pretty.) And Hamilton gives away as much as he spends. It’s no surprise he has a soft place in his scheming heart for an urchin with a tragic tale, an outstretched hand. He lets them touch him, especially the women, as though his gaudy silks will heal their sores.

There is the reputation of Hamilton and the reality. Thomas puts effort into ferreting out the latter. He is tired of the man’s very name. He expresses this to James. James says, placidly, “Then remove it from your mouth.” They’re breakfasting together privately. Thomas sullenly pushes his egg around in its shell. He takes a breath to speak, but James stops him: “I said, sir, ignore him.” Thomas is both rankled and soothed. He says, “He’s not easy to ignore. He makes himself that way.” He searches for an insult but every one feels too weak -- every one makes Hamilton sound beautiful to the point of distraction -- so he stays silent. James’s silence is far more peaceable.

After their meal they linger together. James is fine company, even if he doesn’t always say the things that Thomas wants to hear. Theirs is a friendship predicated on shared hatreds. James forgives in Thomas faults he finds in others. Thomas doesn’t know why. He suspects that if he only gave the command James would lie on his back for him and show his belly; that he would drop to one knee and open his mouth. If they weren’t each other’s closest allies Thomas might divert himself into testing James’s boundaries. Show him the French way and see how James likes it. Let him fear a scandal because that’s what the people in this country fear, even more than a foreigner spidering his way into the rooms of power and the national vaults.

Together Thomas and James pick their way to work. James breathes in deep, sighs, and says, “I do hate this city.” He sounds pleased, a dog rolling in the shit of another dog. Thomas laughs aloud. 

Hamilton is already there, just inside the door. Thomas greets him with a wide smile and says his name. He gets a tight nod in response. For once the boy has chosen to shut his mouth. Perhaps he’s still holding the President’s release on his tongue. For moment, just a few heartbeats, they stare each other down. Thomas wants to say to him _I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your wife. I’ve seen your eldest son, a reckless cocksucker just like his father. Your vices, the open wound from which your money pours. I know you. I know you. I have seen how this will end for you._ But that might be dramatic, god forbid, this early in the morning. With a glance between Thomas and James, they all three break to go about their business.

Hamilton monopolizes Washington’s time today. They’re working on something that will no doubt be crammed down the assembly’s throat by the town crier. Thomas spends the day, then, working on his maps, his land surveys, geological information on the Ohio river. He drafts a few letters, pens some thoughts in his private journal. Hamilton squirms his way into the corner of his thoughts and hunkers there, a feral child learning to hunt. On a loose leaf of pulpy paper, he takes a break from the good of the country to jot down all the ways Hamilton could find his way out of everyone’s hair. An ambassadorship would do the trick, but this Creole rake, two steps up from a slave, is hardly a decent representative of their emerging nation, and the power would go directly to the boy’s head. He’d come back even more insufferable. He’d come back. Thomas is halfway through the suggestion when he strikes it through. Hamilton has no skill in surveying, Christ, no practical knowledge at all, and so sending him out to the territories would be useless and expensive -- no doubt he’d need to enlist a whole phalanx just to carry his bags. Another line across the page. 

Again Thomas’s thoughts wend back to scandal. He could plant a bit of anonymous doggerel in the press about the unseemly closeness of Washington and his right-hand boy. (He jots down the words _fuck poem_.) He could himself step up to the task and ingratiate himself into their miserable flat while Hamilton beavers away late into the night. He could bring a jug of wine, fresh candles, a cone of sugar, some enticement, and Eliza would gladly let him in. And Eliza would answer his questions. And Eliza would open up under the heel of his hand. On the paper he notes _loving wife_. Under that he writes, with a flourish, _truly any woman_. Because the reverse would work as easily, if it hasn’t already. Perhaps Hamilton has developed contempt for his Betsey’s body riddled by children and idle time. (This, Thomas wouldn’t know much about. His own wife was fun and mostly barren and now she’s dead.) Hamilton wouldn’t have to scrounge at all to find some woman or other to give him a polish. He would probably settle for a young man in a skirt. President Washington, his beloved General, sees to Hamilton’s natural inclination for servitude, but he couldn’t keep up with that seething venereal cauldron of a boy. He doesn’t give Hamilton something soft to sink into, plush flesh where he can bury his teeth. And since beggars can’t be choosers, and since Alexander Hamilton has been a beggar his whole life, Thomas underlines his point: Truly any woman will do.


	3. Chapter 3

Where Hamilton prowls, Aaron Burr lurks. Thomas doesn’t care much for him, any more than he cares for anybody. Thomas hates a lawyer, hated himself when he was a lawyer, feels the tricks before they’re trotted out. Burr is a politician in search of a body to rule. His virtues require an audience.

Burr is a slippery eunuch. Even his face is smooth as a stone. He sleeps well. He sleeps with his woman now that she is his and not the wife of some tory piss-stain. He’s fucked enough to produce a lone daughter. Everything Thomas knows about him has been empirical. He is impossible to interpret.

What Burr has invested in Hamilton, Thomas can’t divine. They have been rivals more than allies at the bar; they don’t have a similar personality or similar ambitions; indeed, Burr seems to have no ambitions at all. The man is a vapor.

The vapor settles beside him in the public house, without asking. James brought Burr with him -- vouched for him at the door -- and now James is elsewhere, unwilling to split the chore of this idiot's company. Burr says to him, by way of starting a conversation, “You know, I should thank you men of congress.” Thomas doesn't properly respond, just a syllable and a raise of his lip to show off a canine, and so Burr continues: “You have found a way to occupy Hamilton. You've stolen him away from the bar. Opened up opportunities for us lesser talents." It's meant to be self-deprecating, meant to provoke sympathy. An _aww_. Thomas says, "More room at the trough." Burr chuckles as if he isn't included in the herd.

Burr isn't going anywhere. He has a glass to finish. He's brought a novel. It's a cold day and there's a candle on the table, stew for half a penny. Burr thinks he's found good company, that they're going to become friends, he and Thomas. A smile finds its way to Thomas's mouth. Maybe they are.

Sidelong, Thomas's view of Burr is obscured by his own mane of hair. He turns benevolently to fix him in place. "Mr. Burr," he says. He watches the man's eyes for signs that he's thrilled to be recognized. "I am surprised. James tells me that you will leap through fire to Hamilton's defense. Does he keep you on retainer?"

Burr laughs. His dark cheeks glow. Pretty. He could be an entertainer. He answers, "The man has too many children. He couldn't afford me." He passes a hand over the crown of his head. "Alexander and I have been friends here and there. I only speak for him when he isn't there to speak for himself. When you see him again, mention that I should be paid for the favor."

With some effort Thomas smiles. He indexes the information and the implications between the facts. Hamilton's financials must be a mess, between the public record and the expenses he must hide from his wife. (And yet away he goes, daily, hopping about like a mouse on a hot skillet, jibbering about his banking proposal as if he has a shred of expertise -- while the President watches glazed, daydreaming of biting the boy's shoulders.) And then there is that meaty phrase, _here and there_. Thomas has seen Burr dine at Hamilton's place, though not often. He imagines terse conversation between them with Eliza glancing about, hoping she won't need to intervene. 

Burr has no reputation for quarreling; unusual for a lawyer. There is no record of him throwing or taking a punch, nor an inclination toward dueling. And yet no one seems to like him, President Washington least of all. He sure could use a friend. Here and there.

James returns to the table and politely coughs into his handkerchief before he says, "Ah. Good. You haven't run each other off."

"On the contrary," Thomas says expansively. He grips Burr's shoulder and watches his eyes go wide and seek an escape. "We've made a connection."

James gazes cryptically between them and then sips at his beer. Silently he urges Thomas to continue, and so Thomas does. "Aaron was telling me all about our Hamilton. Tell him what you said." He jostles Burr's shoulder. "Go on."

Into the index: Privately, that is one-on-one, Burr speaks freely. Add just one person to the conversation, even someone of a similar mind, and he scrambles for diplomatic language.

A droplet of sweat trickles down the side of Aaron's neck. Beautiful. Burr stalls for time with a swallow of drink and then says, "I was joking, simply making a joke that Alexander could retain me as counsel. Since I speak so highly of him."

James raises his eyebrows, expecting more. Thomas grins and releases Burr's shoulder only to slap him on the back just in time to send the man's face into his beer. "He doesn't do himself justice, James," he says. "You really should have been here."

Instead of responding, James moves the spotlight back to Hamilton. It gives Burr a moment to breathe. Disappointing. Thomas was hoping he could watch Burr's eyes pop out of their orbits. James does hate it when Thomas plays with his food. James is saying, "-- make time for friendships. He's certainly not making any new ones." And Burr replies, "That work is all Eliza's now. She is the only reason they have any social standing to begin with." Thomas adds to the conversation, "And her father's seat won't last forever. This country won't abide lifelong appointments." To that, they all raise their glasses.

Their coterie moves from the inn to the street, toward Burr's offices. Burr makes idle chatter to which neither James nor Thomas much responds. What an irritating little man. They linger together in the gardens nearby, sitting three abreast on a low stone wall. "You would do well to visit with us more," Thomas says to Burr. Burr fidgets with his cuff. Thomas lets his gaze bore into him until he looks up to meet it. He continues, "We would compensate you for your company." James chimes in, smooth, "We are in a position to offer you things your current friends can't." Burr responds to James while looking at Thomas: "You mean Alexander." James and Thomas nod in unison. Burr says, "What do you mean."

James looks across and tries to silently communicate, but Thomas ignores him. He knows what he wants, and James will want it, too. "Stop defending him." How difficult could that be? "If someone speaks ill of him, let them. You no longer have to jump to his aid."

Burr laughs and says, "Doesn't Alexander need some friends?" James replies, "Does he?" And Thomas supplies, "He has the President's ear." To which James adds, "At the very least." Burr chuckles uneasily at that, a queasy counterpoint to Thomas's own delighted bark. 

Thomas grips Burr's shoulder again, the opposite one now, so the man will feel tomorrow as though he's been ridden. "Let me say it this way. You and Alexander. You're grateful to have him removed from your path. You aren't friends. You might speak highly of him, but he speaks of you not at all. And look at us here," he gestures to their group, all in dark velvet like a family of crows. "Are we not friends?" 

Burr nods and tentatively looks between them: "We are."

James and Thomas exchange the smile of two men about to share a whore. "Well, then," Thomas says. He unclenches his hand and liberates Burr for the time being. "Let us be friends."

When they part, James ambles toward his home and Burr to his office, and Thomas claims himself exhausted and in need of a rest. He catches a hackney toward Hamilton's neighborhood. 

The boy is not at home, but there is his wife. Her hair is loose and she is laughing with one of her children. How easily delighted she is. They are playing some kind of game with a poppet. The storm of contempt draws up so quickly that Thomas doesn't know which hateful thought to settle on first. The doll itself is ugly, perhaps a relic from Hamilton's island childhood. Perhaps it's not even a game at all but some sort of slave witchcraft. (And how like an angel would Mrs. Ham. look tied to a pole staked down in the dry weeds at the center of this town. This place that God forgot.) But then there is the uglier notion: the envy that Hamilton should have such a pretty family at all. This should be Thomas's life. He knew Angelica in Paris well enough to touch her skirts and speak into her ear; he should be a Schuyler by rights. Eliza would adore Monticello. Her children would thrive there, no longer pallid, malnourished, onion-headed, but strong and satisfied from working on the grounds. The chilly echoes in the halls of his home would be dampened by the warmth of a family.

In the window he sees the child, a son, touching Eliza's face, batting at it while she puffs out her cheeks. Thomas grunts and sucks his teeth. He doesn't remember being a child.

He's grateful for the scrap of activity down the lane that catches his attention. A woman is swaying down the street with a basket of linens. Neatly dressed, immediately beautiful. The wind catches her hair and reveals a bruise on her neck. She shifts the basket to one arm and pauses to smooth her hair back into place. "Ah," Thomas says aloud. "Go to that woman," he says to the driver. "Take me over to her."

They follow the woman around the corner, out of sight from the window where Eliza is. Thomas slows the driver and presents himself to the woman. "Your burden looks heavy," he says. He's friendly. He's harmless. "Would you like to ride with me?"

She is relieved. She hefts the basket against her hip again and touches her hair where it's hiding her wound. She says, "I don't have far to go. I don't have much money." Thomas moves over to accommodate her, gestures to the space next to him: "Please."

**Author's Note:**

> Rating will change; tags will change; I'm on tumblr [here](http://tinytrashclubhouse.tumblr.com)


End file.
